Whispers
by IAMGERMANANDSTUFF
Summary: John has had a long run of sorrow. But he can no longer deal. He wants to be done. JOHNLOCK!
1. I Can't Get Away

**A/N:** Hi there all! IAG&S Here! Well, this is the first time I've ever done an Author's Note! This is actually kind of fun!

well, anyway this is just an idea I've really been meaning to put down on paper -er- screen. I hope you will enjoy it! Mind you, it's incredibly angsty. So, please bear with me! This will indeed be a multi chapter fic! I'll work as hard as I can to update often! :D

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**Whispers **

*****Chapter 1*****

**I can't get away.**

* * *

The rain beat against the window. The drops sounded as big as pebbles, probably were. This was London after all. John sighed and surveyed the room he was currently residing in. Everything was as it was the day Sher -_HE_- died. The skull sat upon the mantle, as always, the bookshelves and paper-piled desk were left untouched and to gather dust. The whole flat was covered in dust, in fact, most people believed John Watson had crawled up the stairs and just died.

Two years had passed since _he_ had commit suicide. John had been overwhelmed, like he was being pressed under the power of the Thames at every given moment with grief. He had thought of it before, the easy way out, as they call it. The first days had been rough. The first year he had been able to hide it. But by the second, he could no longer keep a straight face when _his_ name was mentioned. John was one of those people where the death of a loved one took an awful long time to take full effect. He tried to muster up the courage to throw things out, to visit the place where _he_ had died. Yet, everything he touched reminded him of a smile, a glance, a chuckle, a kiss, a pat on the shoulder, that twinkle in _his _eye. John found himself avoiding the whole street that had housed the atrocity. Even if the bank, or some other important thing was that way. He just couldn't.

John sighed again and twiddled his thumbs lightly. This placed practically reeked of _him,_ yet, he couldn't pull himself away. If he left, John would never forgive himself. If he stayed, John knew he would eat himself alive; at least, he could be among the remnants of his lover as he did so. He picked up his mug and took a quivering sip of tea, only to find it was cold. Had he really been thinking on his sorrows that long? Maybe he needed help, maybe he needed to talk to Mycroft? Only he could get himself help, but in his stubbornness, he didn't.

He set down the mug and stood. The man slowly walked to the lou, only to observe a person he'd never seen before staring back at him. It had been a long time since he looked into the mirror. Now, he was met but a pale skinned, skeleton of a man. He was 34. 34, and already had graying hair. He moved a thin hand up to push the brown and silver locks from his eyes. Lord, he looked like a homeless man.

'_Indeed, I am Holmes-less.'_ John thought, blinking back a tear or two. He observed his hands, they looked nothing more than bone. His wrists looked like they would snap under any kind of pressure. His fingernails were getting long too. They looked more like talons or claws that anything else. John shifted on his feet and turned on the sink water. He splashed some of the icy chill onto his face. '_Wake up, John. He's visiting today whether you like it or not.'_

Even though he hadn't asked him to come, Mycroft came every two weeks or so to check on him and make sure he was still alive. After all, any sensible person could see that they wouldn't get through to a stubborn mule like John.

* * *

When Mycroft arrived, John was sitting upon _his_ chair. His hair was short again, and combed as it usually was, though the gray was hard to miss. He was wearing a tan jumper and brown trousers. He looked as though he hadn't slept in months. Which was probably true.

"Hello there, John. How goes it? I see you've been using the money I've sent on the flat and not your betterment." Mycroft observed, pulling off his coat. John visibly stiffened, but gave none other than an 'I'm fine.'. Mycroft decided to meander over to the kitchen. "Cuppa?" He asked from the stove.

"No, thank you." John said stiffly. He normally would've been the one offering a drink, but these meetings with Mycroft were so unbearable that he just didn't have the willpower.

"Have anything stronger?" He asked, reappearing from the open doors. John shook his head and Mycroft sighed. "Well, then I best be going. And John," he said pulling on his rain soaked coat, "I've recently found a good therapist if you're willing." John could only swallow and look down at his clenched fists. The older Holmes took this as a 'no' and exited the premises, leaving John, once again, alone. Alone in his little flat with all his memories.

* * *

When John finally started showing signs of life again, the rain had stopped. The sun filtered in through the grimy windows. The world around him was quiet and calm. He could hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs, banging away at something or another. John took and deep breath and stood. He pulled on his socks, and his battered trainers. The man moved over to the coat rack, where _his_ extra trench coat hang. John grabbed the thing and pulled on swiftly. He buttoned it up and put up the collar. He grinned slightly at how silly he must look. An overcoat much to big for him with the collar up and old dilapidated trainers. A few tears escaped him, however as he caught the scent of the owner. A dreamy expression masked his face as he inhaled deeply, his nose pressed to the fabric. What a wonderful smell. He hobbled back over to his own room in the small flat and opened his bedside table drawer. A black gun sat at the very bottom of the drawer, shielded slightly from view by papers and pictures. He lifted the weapon from its hiding place and stared at it for a few moments before pocketing it.

John left the drawer open as he quickly exited the flat, leaving the door ajar. He wouldn't leave a note, there was nothing he wanted to say. He just wanted to get away. He limped down the stairs as quickly as he could. Watson stood at the front door of 221b, looking up the big, black, tacky golden numbered door he'd called home for so long. He brought his hand up to his mouth, kissed his fingers and then pressed them against the door.

"Good bye, love, I'll be joining you soon though." he whispered, before turning and hailing a cab.

* * *

John arrived at the specified address. He paid the cabbie and stepped out. The big gray building loomed above him. He felt as though he would fall over from the sheer sorrow that damned building was emitting. There was a planter box a bit of the ways from the door. It was high and broad enough to be a bench, so John sat down on it and stared at the spot of Sher - Sherlock's death.

He must've been sitting there for a while. For when he blinked it was suddenly night time. There were people rushing by and often accidentally nudging him in their attempt to hurry past. He had been contemplating, those hours he had been sitting there. Whether or not to kill himself or to just sit there until someone forced him to leave. He had decided on the before portion. Why not?

John slowly pulled the gun from the deep pocket of the trench coat and pressed beneath his chin in a rather discreet fashion. No one would notice until he pulled the trigger. He took a deep breath, but this time it didn't stop the tears from flowing. He let them run, let the hot sorrow of 2 years pour. He clicked off the safety and began to slowly pull the trigger.

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**To be continued...**


	2. I'll Be Home Soon

**A/N:** Hi there all! IAG&S Here! :D I got such good feed back from you guys that I am going to update sooner than later! Oh, also I forgot to tell you guys where I go my inspiration from! I was watching a JOHNLOCK video on youtube. It had the saddest most adorable little song to it as it did fanart slideshow! I looked up the song and it was _Whispers by Dave_ _Baxter__. _Most sad video I've ever watched. Cried like a baby. Also, I think I figured out a nice little way to keep John from pulling the trigger! I hope you enjoy it.

**DISCLAIMER (crap i forgot to do this last chappie): ****_I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THESE DROP DEAD SEXY CHARACTERS AND I AM NOT MAKING ANY MONEY OFF OF THIS!_**

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 2*****

**I'll Be Home Soon.**

* * *

_John slowly pulled the gun from the deep pocket of the trench coat and pressed beneath his chin in a rather discreet fashion. No one would notice until he pulled the trigger. He took a deep breath, but this time it didn't stop the tears from flowing. He let them run, let the hot sorrow of 2 years pour. He clicked off the safety and began to slowly pull the trigger..._

John took a shuddering gasp as he continued to pull the small metal lever. He was really doing this. He was really going to end it all. John felt like he was about to release himself from the shackles of his own self-pity, and yet he found himself stopping. He wouldn't being doing _his_ memory any good if he did this. Especially near the very spot where _he _died. Even though, he still kept the gun pressed beneath his chin. But what of it? Who cared if John Watson died? Not many, just maybe 3 or 4 folks who had rarely bothered to check up on him.

He stared at the people rushing by, it must be around 8 o' clock or so. That would be the only reason why the flood gates had opened. John got nudged again, as had been happening at random intervals for the past hour or so. But this time it was from behind, and someone had their hand on his shoulder. John made to turn around but a voice stopped him,

"Don't turn around, John." It was a deep, throaty rumble. Much like _his_ voice. In fact, almost exactly like _his _voice. "Don't worry, and don't give up. I'll be home soon, love." As soon as the sentences were uttered, the hand was removed and the hot breath on John's ear vanished. He stayed stock still as commanded. John waited a few minutes before he stood up and pocketed his hand gun. _Bloody hell! What was I thinking?!_ He thought angrily. _And WHO was that?_

* * *

John arrived home in record time. He practically knocked Mrs. Hudson over as he ran upstairs. He slammed open the door and then slammed it closed again. He sat heavily in _his_ arm chair, panting slightly, and not bothering to remove the trench coat. He took the gun out of his pocket and clicked the safety on once more. He dropped it on the table and shook his head.

He observed the small two room flat more closely. Something had changed about the place. Maybe his movement had unsettled some dust? Something had changed, something wasn't right. He stood and looked around, getting closer to the desk than he ever had before. He searched everywhere but nothing seemed to be out of place. He stared hard at the mantle piece, and that's when it hit him. The skull was missing.

The bloody skull was missing. It was always there, so John had never really paid it any mind. Now it was gone. A precious artifact of the man _he_ was. Where could it have gone? John shook his head and ran downstairs,

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, knocking on her door as loudly as he could. She practically threw open the door,

"John, what is it? Is everything alright?" she asked, dragging him inside by his arm. John shook his head,

"The skull's missing." He stated, "Do you have any idea where is might be? You didn't take it again did you?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled,

"I'm afraid I don't know, and I'm not your house keeper, dear." She said smiling. "You are alright." John shrugged, he felt much better actually talking to her again. She had reminded him so much of _him. _He sighed and stood,

"Well, then I better go search for it again." John mumbled. Mrs. Hudson smiled and wished him a good day. He then trumped back upstairs and into the flat. He sat down and rubbed his temples. Where was that bloody skull? Why was it bothering him so much anyway? It was just a skull.

* * *

John opened his eyes against the bright morning light. He glanced out the window; not a cloud in the sky. He sat up slowly and then stretched his arms out over his head. He sighed and looked at the room he had been sleeping in. John had fallen asleep on the floor, searching in vain for the that bloodied skull. He stood and surveyed the room. His eyes widened, THE ENTIRE ROOM WAS CLEAN. Everything was organized and dusted. He looked around, a very confused look on his face.

Surely, Mrs. Hudson had had a hand in it. She must've, even though she was constantly reminding him she wasn't his house keeper. Who could've done this? John quietly walked to the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. He pulled out two mugs and placed a tea bag in each, tying the strings around the handles. It was his tradition to always make a cup for _him_ too, in the vain hope that he would come and drink it. The small kettle began to whistle and hiss, so John, with a pot holder, picked it up. He poured hot water into both the mugs, one slightly larger the other, and spooned sugar into the larger. He put a spoonful of honey in his and set them both on the coffee table. He sat in his own chair and took a sip of the piping hot tea. This was his Sunday ritual, having tea with Sherlock. He wouldn't let an oddly spotless flat throw him off. It was only on Sunday that he allowed himself to say the other's name. It was this small freedom that kept him going most days.

"So, I suppose you were behind it then? The flat, I mean, you're the only other person that has a key, Sherlock." He said softly. No reply, as usual. After all, he was taking to an empty chair, and a cup of tea. How odd he must look, taking to thin air. To him, it was the most common thing in the world. Such as kissing his mum, or turning on a light. John sighed again and took a long drag from his mug. He stared at the empty seat across from him, "It could've been Mrs. Hudson, of course she doesn't like pulling pranks like you do." He muttered to no one in particular. Slowly, he pulled himself out of the chair, braking the trance he had been in.

Sunday had been their special day. The day when, no matter how interesting or infuriating the case, he and Sherlock would spend it together. He could almost imagine him sitting there with him on Sundays. Curled up against the broad chest of his lover and have that warm breath in his hair. The gentle touches and mumbled sweet nothings, for the sake of embarrassment...

John found himself crying again, hot tears streaming silently down his cheeks.

Today was Sherlock's birthday. The day that brought him the most pain of all. He would be 31 today, and life wouldn't be so hard.


	3. Take A Deep Breath

**A/N: **Hello all! First off, i would like to say thank you for all those wonderful reviews! They encouraged me to continue on with my fic! I know it may not flow well, but I am trying! So please forgive my grammar, I am from Germany, recently moved to America, so yeah.

Oh, right, YAY SUMMER VACATION! I also have a deviantart is any one is interested! My username is my pen name here! :) I like this username so much! I just can't help myself! :)

Oh, also, I don't know when, but i may be gone for a week or so coming up here. I will, however, try to tell you when! :)

**DISCLAIMER: **I make no money. These characters belong to the Sherlock show, yadda yadda yadda.

**WARNING! THIS IS A SMUT CHAPPIE! IF YOU DONT LIKE DONT READ! BUT KEEP IN MIND THERE IS IMPORTANT PLOT POINTS IN THIS CHAPPIE TOO!**

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**Whispers**

*****Chapter 3*****

**Take A Deep Breath**

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_Sunday had been their special day. The day when, no matter how interesting or infuriating the case, he and Sherlock would spend it together. He could almost imagine him sitting there with him on Sundays. Curled up against the broad chest of his lover and have that warm breath in his hair. The gentle touches and mumbled sweet nothings, for the sake of embarrassment..._

_John found himself crying again, hot tears streaming silently down his cheeks._

_Today was Sherlock's birthday. The day that brought him the most pain of all. He would be 31 today, and life wouldn't be so hard..._

John stared at the wall, no words or witty banter greeting his ears. No soft loving words. No bloodied words at all. He continued to cry softly, letting it out was better than bottling up. At least, that's what's Mrs. Hudson said. John curled up in his chair and hid his face in his knees.

_"John, don't cry...it wasn't your fault. Take a deep breath, deep breaths." _a voice bounced around the room. Or so it seemed at least. John looked up to see a shimmery image of _him._ His eyes widened,

"Sh-Sherlock...?" He asked, the confusion clear on his face. The apparition merely shook it's head,

_"I'm in your mind, you know that right...?"_ The Sherlock said quietly, reaching out and stroking his cheek. It felt so real, so right, so there. John simply nodded and smiled sadly.

"I know, but let me enjoy, won't you?" He said softly. _Sherlock_ nodded and sat on John's lap, straddling him. "What are you...?" he began, put the apparition put a long thin finger to his lips. He immediately got quiet. He would never disobey Sherlock when he got like this. Sherlock got his way all the time, but especially when something sexual was in order. John's breath hitched in his throat as the Sherlock reached down and groped his crotch. He knew that he was the once touching himself, but he let himself imagine it was Sherlock doing so. His body was sexually starved. He hadn't touched himself, or had sex since Sherlock died.

He whimpered softly and let it happen. His length began to rise underneath his thick trousers. The Sherlock smiled down at him and slowly unbuttoned it's blazer, before dropping it to the floor. It disappeared in a puff as it touched the ground. His hands traveled up John's chest and began to pull up his jumper. This too traveled down to the floor, except it just landed in a crumpled heap. John was shirtless and flushed. He was panting slightly,

"Sherlock...Lord..." he said softly. The Sherlock chuckled and stripped down to nothing but his socks. John stared at the aroused member before him. "Wow..." He said softly. The Sherlock smiled and beckoned John to the same. The smaller male nodded and stripped as quickly as his body would allow. Soon he was down to nothing but his socks as well. _Sherlock_ smirked,

_"Doggy style, love. It really is my favorite position."_ The Sherlock smiled and waited for John to do as asked. When John was in position, he pressed a saliva slicked finger into his entrance. John moaned softly,

"Sherlock..." he breathed out. The apparition chuckled,

_"You look like a little corgi, John. It's adorable."_ _Sherlock_ said softly. He pressed a second finger into the tight ring of muscle. John whimpered, he felt himself getting close. He lowered down onto his elbows,

"Sherlock...close." He murmured. The apparition smiled and nodded,

_"Me too."_ He said softly, reaching around John and beginning to stroke his neglected erection. He began to press his fingers deeper into John, scissors them. John gasped and moaned loudly. He backed into the fingers, moaning. _Sherlock_ smiled as John came, spurting his seed onto the couch below. _Sherlock_ smiled and helped John turn around. He leaned down and kissed his forehead.

_"Until next time, John."_ The apparition smiled and then vanished as if he was mist. John held the hand until it disappeared. He sighed and pulled his briefs back on. He cleaned up the couch and curled up upon it. He wrapped a blanket around himself and closed his eyes, and tried to remember the glowing blue eyes of his imagined lover. He knew he had masturbated and not actually had sex with Sherlock, but it had seemed so real.

He let himself believe it had been and let out a yawn. John rolled over and snuggled into the couch. Sherlock really loved this piece of furniture, and it still clung to his scent. He always slept here, because like hell he was sleeping in their bed. They had shared it, and he could barely even enter the room to get his clothes every morning, let alone sleep there. John sighed and let the warm darkness of sleep over take him.

"Good night, Sherlock..." He said softly, before falling into the embrace of his dreams and his imagined Sherlock.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	4. About The Clean Flat

**A/N:** Hi there guys! I just read a review from the last chapter and it made me snort ramen noodles! XD it was really funny! I hope you guys continue to love on my story! hehehehe, see what I did there with the name? hur hur.

Any who! I think I'm getting my family's Mac fixed today. It died really hard, or something. I really have no idea what my dad was talking abiut so i just kind of smiled and nodded. :B

**DISCLAIMER - I DO NOT OWN THESE SEXY MEN!**

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 4*****

**About The Clean Flat.**

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_He let himself believe it had been and let out a yawn. John rolled over and snuggled into the couch. Sherlock really loved this piece of furniture, and it still clung to his scent. He always slept here, because like hell he was sleeping in their bed. They had shared it, and he could barely even enter the room to get his clothes every morning, let alone sleep there. John sighed and let the warm darkness of sleep over take him._

_"Good night, Sherlock..." He said softly, before falling into the embrace of his dreams and his imagined Sherlock..._

John sat up the next morning and looked around. He had slept well for the first time in a long time. His dreams of _him_ had overpowered the usual nightmares. Yes, he was going to call _him_ "him" again. He only allowed himself too on _his_ birthday and on Sunday. That was law in 221b. John slowly pulled himself off of the couch and observed his surroundings once more. Indeed, everything was dusted and stacked accordingly. He sighed, there was only one person who had the key other than him and Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock Holmes. He definitely didn't do it, and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have done it either. He furrowed his brow, _he _couldn't be alive, could _he_? After all, that voice had sounded a lot like _him._ The breath and the hand, it had been so familiar.

John paced the flat, racking his brain for any possible scenario in which _he_ could've lived. He had done this before. The first year is was all he ever thought about. He had given up when there had still been no sign of _him _after another year. But now, his hope was renewed!

"Now just what exactly did he say...?" He thought aloud. "Oh, yes! 'I'll be home soon, love.' that was it. But what does it mean? Maybe, it really was _him_. But no, it couldn't have been. God, I'm so confused!" John cried in exasperation, plopping down on the couch once more. He rubbed his temples, John could feel a head ache coming on. Just about that time, there was a knock at the door, "it's open!" He called. Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a small parcel.

"I found this on the front stoop, thought I'd bring if up for you, dear." She explained, setting it down on the coffee table in front of him. John smiled lightly,

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said quietly. She hugged him and when she pulled back, she kept a hand on his shoulder,

"Just remember, if you ever need to talk, just call." Mrs. Hudson said gently. John nodded,

"I know, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for bringing my package." He murmured. After that, he wished her a good day and locked the door behind. He had remained calm in the face of another, but now that Mrs. Hudson had left, he let the worry seep into his features. He hadn't ordered anything, and according to the return address it was no one he knew. He certainly didn't know a Herman Semloh. John licked his lips and pulled out his pocket knife. He was going to have to open it.

John slowly approached the seemingly harmless parcel and untied the twine. He then stuck the tip of his knife into the space between the box flaps and ran the small knife through the tape. Once that was done, he clicked his knife closed and stepped back from the box. No explosions, good. He wasn't feeling light headed or sick in any way, so it wasn't any type of lethal gas. He watched the box closed, focusing all his senses solely on the object. After a few more minutes, he deemed it safe and pulled away the paper concealing whatever was inside. John's eyes widened slightly, it was the little corgi statute he had left out at _his_ grave last month. He had found it odd when it had disappeared. But now, here it was a month later. Not a scratch on it either. John scratched his head and sat down on the couch, holding it loosely in his hand. Where had it come from? Who had sent it? He would have to call Lestrade about this Herman Semloh.

John sighed and sat the little corgi on the coffee next to the box it had come it. He stared at it for a moment. It was quite a happy looking little thing. It was in mid-run and looked like it was barking at something or another. He had found it while searching through an old box at his sister's house. It reminded him of _him _and he had snatched it up. It had been before _he _had died of course. John took a deep breath and rubbed the tear that had threatened to fall. He refused to think about that day. Never again. It hadn't been his fault as the apparition had said last night. _He _hadn't done it of _his_ own free will. _He'd_ done it to save the lives of many instead of just _himself_. _He_ hadn't done it because _he_ was depressed and done with the world, and John knew it. He sat for a long while staring at the little corgi, remembering the good days, the good memories.

He found himself smiling widely. John couldn't keep it off of his face. _He_ had been such a nutter indeed. He reminded himself that he wasn't holding onto to life because of the horrors he'd seen, he was holding on because of the good times and his love for _him_. John even laughed, he smiled and chuckled. He felt better than he had in two years. The little corgi gave him hope. The little dumb dog reminded him that he should be as it was, because that's what _he_ would've wanted.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	5. John Palace

**A/N:** It seems that no one really liked the last chap. Oh well, I'll still continue anyway! So any way, i think Sherlock will be making another appearance pretty quick here! BUT HE WON'T BE BACK YET! JOHN MUST SUFFER ABOUT...6 MORE CHAPTERS OR SO? No, probs 4. This is a short fic! :P Sorry, I just have a feeling that you guys are getting bored of listening to John's odd ways of grieving.

SO~! WE'RE GUNNA SWITCH THINGS UP! Chapter from Sherly's point of view! HUR HUR.

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own em. I make no money. :P**

**SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN REICHENBACH FALL. DO NOT READ.**

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 5*****

**John Palace**

* * *

Sherlock glared at the wall, uttering only a grimace of boredom. He missed John, he missed their flat, he missed Mrs. Hudson too. But being so close, being able to touch John. He couldn't believe his luck when he had caught a glimpse of him. But when he saw that fact that John was going to end it all, he couldn't let that happen. He would reveal himself soon enough. But not yet of course, a little while longer. The heat was still up, he needed t lay low for a bit more. He desperately wanted to go back to John, believe me, he did. But, the media would eat it up if he suddenly reappeared after being missing 2 whole years, and he didn't want John to go through that again.

It had hurt John so badly when they started to tarnish Sherlock, but even worse, when he faked his own death. God, the poor, poor man. Sherlock shook his head to free his head of these swirling thoughts. They seemed to constantly barge in nowadays. It was probably because he had been in the flat. It had been nearly a week since he made the flat spotless. He had done it to rouse John's suspicion. Sadly, John didn't seem to notice. No matter, he had had other plans of attack in mind.

The day after he observed John looking about the flat and not doing anything about it, he had decided to visit his grave. John had been visiting once a month for 2 years. Loyal sod. He searched through several boxes of nicotine patches and some of his old scarves when he found it. A little corgi statue. He loved the little thing to pieces. It reminded him of John. Maybe this little dog would cheer him up. Now, since it had been so long, he would start poking about in John's life once more. He amused himself by carefully wrapping the small abject and then packing into a perfect little brown box. He taped it shut and tied twine around it for extra flourish. He then slapped a label on it with the fake identity he had been using, and marched straight to the stoop of 221b. He had opened the door, glided towards the steps and left the package there. Sherlock had knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door and then made a run for it.

The brunette had made it back to his flat in record time. He then busied himself for a few hours with notes he had been meaning to send to John and then eventually he got bored again. And there we are, present time. Sherlock was brooding over something or another and desperately trying to find something to do. He then remembered the mind mapping theory. Why not go to his John Palace?

He had always had two separate mind palaces; one devoted to information alone, and the other for his memories of John. He preferred the later much more than the first. His John Palace as he called it, was always a sanctuary of sorts. It helped him relax, or refocus his thoughts, or just get out of a boring situation like right now. So, he sat down on his small arm chair (which wasn't nearly as comfy as his one at home), and slowed his breathing. He focused his thoughts on his glorious John Palace, and off to it he went.

Once to it, he began going through the memories of his love life with John, and every detail of his wonderful body. He went through John's face first. Slightly messy hair, bags under the eyes, deep blue eyes. Heated blush, porcelain lips, almost perfect teeth. Soft skin, furrow like wrinkles just above the brow, laugh lines. His sweet and pleasant smile. The warmth of those smiles, oh, just to died for. He then moved on lower. Neck that fits his body quite well, bullet scar on his left shoulder, broad shoulders. Often slackened shoulders. Broad chest, not as muscular as he used to be. He didn't mind of course, he had just made a mental not of it was all. Slightly pudgy stomach, perfect pillow. Wide hips, nice hips, rounded hips. Hips, hips, hips. Sherlock shook his head to clear the thoughts away. Scar on left hip. Reason why John limps. Why are all his wounds on the bloody left? His...oh, don't think about that. His thighs! Yes those, they make a nice pillow too. He always got his head stroked when he used John's lap as a pillow, Sherlock would keep that in mind. Knobby knees, strong calves. Sturdy ankles, feminine feet. Thin toes, well manicured toe nails. John keeps his feet awfully clean.

Sherlock continued his ritualistic John Palace search until eventually he had exhausted this asset as well. He rubbed his temples and decided it would be best to order some takeaway. John had always made his meals before, so, his primary food source was no longer available. He had been eating takeaway like it was going out of style. That meant that he was exercising and training at the gym a whole more. Hopefully he would never run into anyone he knew. So far so good. Ah, going off on a tangent again. Silly Sherlock. He sighed and picked up his phone. He dialed the number for a Chinese place down a couple blocks. Sherlock placed an order and then sat for 20 minutes, occupying himself by coming up with different methods to invade John privacy. He also gave thought to how he should reveal himself to John as well. Before he knew it food had arrived.

Sherlock stood and walked silently to the door. He looked the peep hole, just the delivery man. He opened the door, pushed the cash into guy's hand, snatched his food, and slammed the door shut. He had not wanted to admit it, but he had become rather paranoid. Not wanting anyone to see him and such. He sighed and sat down, pulling two cartons of Chinese food out of the bag, along with a pair of chopsticks. He broke them and chowed down. John always said not to let good food go to waste after all.

After Sherlock had finished his meager meal, he decided it was best to take an early respite. He kicked off his slippers, pulled his robe around himself and flopped onto his bed. He sighed and closed his eyes. He hoped his dreams would be filled of John again. Though this time of smiling John at least.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	6. Tea on a Winter Tuesday

**A/N: **Hello all! IAG&S here! Hope you guys like the John Palace! I got the idea after watching episode 2 of season two! :) Well, I know you all love sherly very much, but I'm having Johnny Boy withdraws! SO~ I decided to put this chapter in his POV once more! :D Yes, yes, I know; "When are Sherly and Johnny Boy going to be reunited and snog each others faces off?" Soon, very soon. Next few chapters soon. :) Be strong my fellow Johnlock shippers! I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve! Also, per chance would any of you be interested in Mystrade? I'm thinking about writing a fic for that pairing! Let me know in the reviews if you think that's a good idea! Love you all bunches! :3

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own it. I make no money.**

**WARNING! John gets all sad again. I feel like making him sad. IDK. ****_DON'T JUDGE_**** ME!** D: But then he's a happy adorbs little bugger like always~! :)

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 6*****

**Tea on a winter Tuesday.**

* * *

John kicked off his trainers and plopped down on the couch. Today had been a _very_ long day at work. 17 surgeries in a row. He was exhausted. Sarah had sent him home early on account that he looked, exact quotations, "Like he'd been used as a human battery for decades. He was a robot running on coffee." and "A human zombie, hacking into patients, and miraculously saving their lives."

John sighed, this wouldn't be happening if he could just figure out who Herman Semloh was and why his flat was so clean and why the corgi statue had, unbeknownst to him, arrived on his front stoop. What was even more unsettling, was that this Mr. Semloh, had apparently been showing up at his work place for quite some time. Sarah had brought it up while they were taking their 20 minute break between shifts. It had startled him so much, that he had ruined his favorite jumper. The stripped one. It would take some very strong detergent to clean out a black coffee stain. Sarah had taken it to the cleaner's for him, only saying that he was in a financial bind and didn't need to pay extra to look well dressed.

Which was absolutely true. John, since _h -_ Sherlock had died, had been paying the rent all by himself. Mrs. Hudson had lowered as much as she could, but she still had to make money after all. It was still a steep price to pay. With all the cab rides and trips the grocery store, it came to be a very loathsome day to pay rent. He barely scrounged by every month. Hell, maybe this Mr. Semloh would start sending him money. It would be a godsend. John, however, shook his head quickly berating himself. He had taken care of himself for this long, why couldn't he keep doing so? But the need to be comfortable again was starting to overpower his will power. It was so appealing; to come home from a regular shift and put his feet up, drink some tea, and watch the telly. That would be his ideal life. But once again, Sher - Sherlock's death prevented him from doing so.

The blonde sighed again and huddled into the couch, trying to banish the chill in his flat. He hadn't been able to afford the heating bill, nor the a/c bill, nor the telly bill for the two years he had lived alone. These simple pleasures had been ripped away from him, along with his beloved lover. John drew a shuddering gasp, damn. He was crying again. He had thought of the brunette too much again. It had happened at work too, another reason he was sent home early.

"John, you big baby, stop crying. He's dead and there's no bringing him back." He rebuked himself in a shaky voice. The tears still came, and they came hot a plenty. They quickly made streaks down his cheeks as he drew yet another shudder of a breath. Before he knew it, his breath was coming in shallow gasps. His situation at the moment was too overwhelming. The thoughts of Sherlock weren't helping either. He let out a pitiful groan, then several hiccups, which generally became shuddering, shaky sobs. The sobs wracked his whole body, making him shiver and twitch. It just wasn't fair. Why him? Why Sherlock? Why did he have to love that bloody fool so damned much!

John crumpled himself into a ball on the couch and continued to weep until eventually his breaths returned to a normal rate. He had probably been crying for a good 25 minutes or so. He spoke aloud and found his voice rather hoarse. He shook his head and shivered again. Lord, it was nippy in here. He went out of pure instinct to the thermostat and clicked it to 38 degrees Celsius. Much to numbed brain's surprise the heater actually sputtered to life. The warm air was quickly beginning to blow into the flat, warming the place as if the fire had been stoked. His eyes widened. His bill had been paid? They turned his air back on?

He nearly jumped with excitement. He wouldn't have to dress like he was going to the Alps for bed anymore! He let out a happy squeak and dropped heavily onto the couch, relishing in the fact that he didn't have to bundle up to just sit still. He slipped out of his warm winter parka and his coat and his jumper, until he was down to his button down cotton long sleeve. It was heaven on earth. He hadn't been this undressed in his flat in the winter since, since well when Sherlock had been about. He smiled like an idiot. He then stood, walked straight to the kitchen, boiled himself tea and poured two mugs, as was his tradition. Hell, if it wasn't Sunday, he wanted to tell Sherlock the good news.

John set the mug down on the coffee table and could almost imagine Sherlock sitting across from him, grinning just as widely.

"Guess what, love? We have heat again! Which means, maybe I could go shirtless around the flat! You'd like that I assume?" He said giddily, taking a guzzle from his tea. His imagined Sherlock smiled and simply nodded. He didn't say anything this time, which was rather odd, since he always talked back. John quickly brushed it off and continued to natter on about his good fortune. "Do you think it was that Semloh guy? He seems pretty eccentric if you ask me." John said. The apparition looked puzzled for a moment before smiling widely and winking.

_"Maybe, John. You're certainly getting close."_ The Sherlock said. Before John could ask further of him, he vanished just as quickly as he had come. John stared at the empty seat before him for a moment. He finished his tea, then shrugged and reached for Sherlock's. His lover hadn't minded before, he certainly wouldn't mind now. John guzzled it down and curled up on the couch. His Sherlock almost never left without saying good bye. He was a bit nervous of this, maybe he was forgetting his partner? Maybe he was losing his marbles. He really couldn't quite tell.

John laid there thinking over the phrase his imaginary lover had said. He didn't understand, was his subconscious trying to tell him something? He pulled his knees up so that he was curled up into a ball again. Before he knew it his mulling brain was getting drowsy. Then suddenly he was dreaming of Sherlock again. He hoped this Sherlock wouldn't leave him too.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	7. A Date With Mr Semloh

**A/N:** Hi there! :3 I hope you guys will like this one! I know this is getting lengthy and quite boring in spots but - I AM TRYING. KYUEFDHIEUGFKBEFJGEFH$FIUHUI. I'm so...having writing block. :P

**DISCLAIMER: No money. Not mine.**

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 7*****

**A Date with Mr. Semloh**

* * *

John sat up and looked around. Wednesday. That was today wasn't it? His cell rang quite loudly from his back pocket. God, why did he choose such an annoying ringtone? Oh, right. Sherlock had chosen it for him. He sighed and pulled it out, flipping it open. He pressed it to his ear without checking the number,

"Hello, John speaking." He said tentatively, though he certainly didn't feel like talking, he might as well be polite.

"Hello, John, this is Herman Semloh." a rich baritone replied from the other end. John's breathing caught in his throat, but he quickly banished his thought.

"What might this call be for? It's 6 am. I'd rather not be called this early in the morn-"

"Do you like the heating being turned back on?" He cut in. John blinked a few times to make sure he had heard him right,

"So, you were the one who paid for my air to be turned back on?" He asked, furrowing his brows. This was most odd indeed. So, it was this complete stranger who had paid for it after all. John heard a chuckle from the other end, confirming his suspicions. "Why?" he asked.

"You looked cold." Was the only answer he could get. "John?" this time the tone was questioning.

"Yes?" said John, with a frustrated sigh.

"Would you meet me for dinner? At Speedy's? It's just below your flat I believe. Say, Saturday? 8 'o clock?" he asked. John's face flushed red, a date? Oh God, this person, who he didn't even know what they looked like, wanted a dinner date.

"I'm sorry, but just because I'm single doesn't mean-" he was cut off again.

"Not a date. Meeting. I would like to formally introduce myself." Mr. Semloh said softly. John gulped at the anxiousness in the other man's voice.

"Oh - bugger it- I'll come. But it's not a date." He stated gruffly. He heard a relieved sigh from the other end.

"Alright, but please dress nicely. Just with a clean jumper and jeans - you know, casual." the man said. John found himself blushing again,

"Okay. I'll see you Saturday. G'Bye." he said quickly, all in one breath.

"Saturday." there was a pause, "Good bye." and with that, the line went silent. John dropped his hand into his lap, staring at his cell phone. The voice - the voice was the same as the one on the street that had said...that had said - oh, right! "_I'll be home soon, love."_ John shivered and took a deep breath,

"Could it possibly be...Sherlock?" he said aloud. He sighed and pushed his phone back into its designated pocket. "Sodding hell, that's impossible. You're turning into a nutter, John." He said quickly, rebuking himself for his foolish hope. No, this was just a man. A - kind - man, who was wiling to pay for a sorry sod's heating bill. Nothing more, nothing less. All the same, he needed to clean himself up a bit. His closet was a mess, his hair was getting long again too.

"Alright, John. Today, you start to clean up your act."

* * *

By the time night fell, John looked like he had two years prior. His hair was short, he was clean and well-groomed. He was wearing a clean jumper and dress shirt. His jeans were clean too, and he had even bought himself a pair of new dress shoes on the way back from the barbers. He threw his old dilapidated trainers into the rubbish bin. He would certainly not be wearing those again.

John pulled off Sherlock's big trench coat and hung it on its respectable hook. He looked odd in it, but he would still wear it anyway. He shook his head and slipped into his and Sherlock's room, pulling off his clothes. He quickly dressed for bed, getting into some warm pajamas. He glanced sideways at the bed he had shared with his late lover. Ha, late. Late is right. He shook his head again, pulling back the covers very slowly. The last time he had even attempted this, he had to spend two nights in the hospital because of the panic and anxiety attacks that plagued him afterwards.

John slipped under them as quickly as possible before pulling them up beneath his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes slowly,

"No, tears?" He wondered. He had always cried, but for some reason - tonight - he felt at peace. John rolled over and curled into the warm sheets. This was definitely more comfortable than the couch. He let out a loud yawn and struggled with the sheets for a bit before calming down and slowing his breathing. Tomorrow he should tell Lestrade to stop looking for this Semloh. After all, he was going to meet him in 3 days time.

John allowed himself to drift off much more quickly than usual. He wasn't fighting to stay awake any longer. He had needed this, needed sleep.

"Good night...Sherlock. Sweet dreams." he murmured, sighing softly. He let the warm, dark embrace of sleep envelope his mind. Soon, he found himself in a dream.

* * *

_John walked through a big black door, which he had thought led to a building, but instead led to a beautiful forest. He stood dumbfounded for a few moments before he spotted a mop of brunette curls in through the bushes ahead,_

_"Sherlock!" He yelped happily, crashing through the foliage. He talked said man, and said man hugged him back. _

_"You haven't come to me in a long while, John. Why haven't you been sleeping in our bed. It is ours." Sherlock said with a hurt tone. John shook his head, _

_"I was scared Sherlock..." He mumbled. "That, I'd see a nightmare instead." Sherlock held him desperately closer,_

_"I'm always with you John, no matter what."_

_"Really?"_

_"Always."_

* * *

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._**


	8. Broken Bones and Bloody Noses

**A/N:** Hello all! 5 weeks til school! Blegh. So, I will update as quickly as possible and wrap this up ASAP. 1 MORE CHAPTER! MUAHAAHAHAHAHHAHA. Yay me.

**DISCLAIMER- I NO OWN. I NO MAKE MONEY. **

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 8*****

**Broken Bones and Bloody Noses**

* * *

John took a deep breath and opened the door to his flat. Today was the day. The mystery of Mr. Semloh would finally be solved. He stepped out onto the landing and locked his flat door. The blonde took another deep breath and descended the stairs. He slipped out onto Baker Street and speed walked to Speedy's. He swung open the door and stepped in. The owner smiled and greeted John warmly, and told him that his date had already arrived.

"He's not my date!" John yelped, becoming red in the face. The owner simply chuckled and showed him to a table. It was in front of a window. John stood silently for a moment. A mop of brown hair greeted his eyes, as well bright blue eyes and a mischievous smile. He could only stare, "Sherlock...?" he asked quietly.

"It is I, John." He said with a smirk. John let out a hiss of breath before talking him into the booth and sucker punching him as hard as he could.

"You git! I waited for two bloody years! TWO!" John growled, continually throwing punches. Sherlock laid still underneath his raging lover, letting himself be beaten to a bloody pulp. After about 5 more minutes of this the owner and some other customers pulled John off of brunette. He struggled in their grasp, "You-! you-!"

Sherlock sat up slowly, holding his now broken and bleeding nose. His fore arm also seemed to broken as well. A few people were trying to help him but he was pushing them away and brushing their attempts off. "Only John is allowed to do so." He murmured through his bloody nose. John stopped struggling in an instant. He blinked a few tips taking in the situation. He had just brutally beaten his only chance at happiness. What kind of sick bastard was he?

"Sh-Sherlock..." he said shakily, tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock sighed and held his left arm, which was wasn't broken out. John wriggled out of his captors arms and practically tackled the man. He was crying uncontrollably. He couldn't hold it together. He came undone. John let out all the hate, anger, and suffering he'd felt. He let it all go. Sherlock was here. His Sherlock. Not an apparition. He wasn't in his mind. He was- he was there. He could touch him, he could be held. Sherlock cooed quietly to him, telling him he wasn't going to leave, and that he had him and wasn't letting go. Though John didn't really remember saying those things, it was still very comforting. It was also an excuse to hear Sherlock speak. Oh, how he'd missed that wonderful voice.

John felt himself drifting off. Sherlock was so warm. His smell was overwhelming. The whole situation was so overpowering. He was shutting down...he was tired...

_Sherlock..._

* * *

John awoke in the pale morning sunshine. It was winter after all. His senses came flooding back all at once. He sat bolt upright and launched himself out of bed, only to trip and fall on his face. He sat up again, though much more slowly this go around. He put a hand to head, which was smarting something fierce. He heard movement in the living room. Had he invited someone over last night? Suddenly a familiar face graced the doorway. His brow was furrowed with worry,

"John, I heard a crash- you're bleeding." Sherlock mumbled, kneeling down next to him and dabbing the wound the end of his sleeve. John stared at him completely awestruck. The brunette's nose was still swollen from John's rage the night prior. His right arm was in a sling and wrapped in a cast. John couldn't help but let out a horrified squeak.

"Sh-Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I just- I was so angry- I let my temper get the best of me." He said with a whimper. He closed his eyes, expecting an insult back. Instead he felt a gentle touch to his cheek,

"It's alright, John, you had every right to be angry with me. I shouldn't have made my appearance in a public place though...that was a dumb ass move. " He said with a sigh, pulling on John's arm causing him to lean forward against his chest. "Just relax, and don't anything foolish."

"You sound like my mother." John chuckled. He let out a relieved sigh and curled up close to his lover. That shut the git up. Sherlock sighed and smirked a bit,

"You broke my nose, and my arm. You knocked one of my teeth out too." He said smiling widely in John direction. The blonde snorted, before beginning to laugh.

"You deserved it, you git."

"Whatever." He said, capturing John's lips and snogging him thoroughly. John didn't even try to resist as Sherlock pushed him back against the dresser. he simply wrapped his arms around the other man, pressing their bodies closer together. Sherlock let out a pleasured purr and delved his long fingers into John's thick blonde hair.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson." he breathed as he pulled away. "Shall we continue this once my wounds heal.?" He grinned as John nodded eagerly. He gather the other man up with his good arm and deposited him onto the bed. "I am rather tired, shall we sleep in til' noon?" Sherlock asked, kissing John's wounded temple.

"Bugger it, why not? You've got a lot of catching up to do after all. You haven't slept here in 2 years." John growled playfully, kissing Sherlock's bruised lip. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." he murmured, curling up against the broad chest he had missed so dearly. "Good night, Mr. Semloh." he said with a chuckle. Sherlock sighed and held his unruly lover a bit closer before yawning slightly, being careful of his throbbing jaw.

"Good night, Mr. Watson."

* * *

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._**


	9. Happily Ever After Plus One

**A/N:** Hi there! Last Chapter~ Boohoohoo. QAQ oh well. Let's get this going!

**DISCLAIMER: I NO OWN THESE AMAZING CHARACTERS. ABUABUABU! I DON'T MAKE MONEY EITHER. I LOVE YOU GRATISS AND MOFFAT.**

**Warning: Cute Mpreg fluff! If you don't like Mpreg, don't read! Also, i decided the last one should be a smut chappie. Just cause I only gave you guys one! Love you all! And thanks bunches for the kind reviews! :)**

* * *

**Whispers**

*****Chapter 9*****

**Happily Ever After Plus One**

* * *

Sherlock let out a contented sigh and held John closer. It had been a year since he returned. John had been very mellow and relaxed after the initial reunion. All he had wanted to do was make love with Sherlock at every given moment. Sherlock didn't disappoint. He smiled to himself and rubbed a hand over John's back.

"Need another rub?" He asked, noting the way his lover flinched. Well, husband actually. John nodded and pulled himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock began to rub John's shoulders, then slowly down to his lower back. More like wife. Did I forget to mention they had a little one on the way? He reached a hand around and rubbed a hand over his wife's rounded belly. 6 months ago, they had found out that John was pregnant. It had been startling, considering that John was indeed male, and definitely not a transvestite. The whole situation was very confusing. It was all thoroughly explained when Sherlock had remembered the tests he'd been doing on John before he faked his death. John had been furious with him, and didn't even look at him for an entire 2 weeks.

Luckily, Greg Lestrade had come to the raging couple's rescue. He had talked some sense into John, he only had to punch him once! The git had given in and apologized to Sherlock and eventually even let the brunette near him once more. It had been a loud and grouchy ordeal, but thankfully it had all blown over smoothly. Much to Sherlock's delight, John was extremely dependent for comfort and food in this state. He was all over Sherlock at some moments, and ready to punch him in the face the next.

He had started to eat the most random of things. He would eat strawberry jam, straight out of the jar. Other times he would mix tea and decaf coffee (since Sherlock was adamant about letting John have caffeine) then drink it cold. He also had started to walk around in nothing but his red pants and Sherlock's robe. His rounded belly was completely exposed. Except, now it was winter again. So, now he was back to warm jumpers and sweat pants. Sherlock loved observing John in his impregnated state. It was absolutely fascinating! Of course, he had comforted the mood swings, quelled the cravings, and rubbed the pains away. Not only was John fascinating, he was absolutely adorable! He always slept curled up on his side, with a little pout upon his brow. He was just the cutest thing!

Sherlock shook his head and continued to rub John's belly. They had yet to feel the first kick. It was such a waiting game, pregnancy. The brunette blinked at the contented sigh he received from John. Noticing the inquisitive look from his husband, the blonde let out a slight chuckle.

"He's be squirming around like crazy, not kicking however, and you rubbing my belly seems to be calming him down. It's the first peace I've had in 2 weeks." John explained, turning his head and kissing Sherlock lovingly. "I can't even imagine sleeping even less once he starts kicking." He murmured, laying his hand a top Sherlock's. The world's only consulting detective's face showed absolute smugness. He kissed John right back and decided a bit of French kissing was in order. He bit John's lower lip, causing the other to involuntarily give up his mouth to the enemy.

Sherlock smirked and crawled on top of his little ex-soldier. He kissed him more passionately than before, set on mapping every centimeter of John's mouth. Said blonde was practically limp beneath him. He squirmed here and there in retaliation, but didn't do much more than that. Sherlock had full access to every bit of John if he wanted. Surely, the brunette absolutely wanted it! He pressed his face into John's neck, licking the newly sensitive skin there. He made sure to stay on his knees, so not to press against the child growing in John's belly. He smiled slightly and pulled John's jumper off. Bare skin was revealed beneath.

"Oh, John~," Sherlock purred, "You've really let yourself go." He chuckled at John's indignant expression. "I'm kidding, love. You should know." He murmured. Sherlock delved lower, nipping at a perked pink bud with gusto. He tweaked the other roughly. John hadn't had time to reply, he was quickly overwhelmed by the pleasure he was receiving. His skin had become overly sensitive in the past few months. Pregnancy had made him more sensitive than usual and Sherlock had taken this to his advantage.

John mumbled out a terse words before giving in and letting himself be pushed beyond the point of no return. He moaned softly and gripped the cushion below himself.

"Sherlock...don't prepare me...I'm ready!" He panted spreading his legs. His entire body was begging for a release that only Sherlock could give him. The brunette smiled knowingly and removed John's sweat pants. He quickly lubed up his own erection before pressing against John's entrance. It had always been so much better with the real John, than his imagined one, and his John Palace. He pressed in and slid in up to the hilt with ease. It surprised him at first, but then he remembered he had come inside last night. John still seemed to be stretched from last night endeavors as well.

Sherlock smirked and licked John's collarbone, smiling widely.

"You know, I just can't get enough of you." Sherlock murmured, right next to John's ear. He made sure his hot breath with brush against his wife's chilled skin in all the right ways. John replied in a bunch of broken up sentences and syllables. The brunette smiled, knowing that John was pushed into a place of pleasure that he wouldn't be coming back from for a bit.

Sherlock began to move. Pulling slowly out until the head of his member was in and then slowly pushing back in all the way to the hilt. He did this for several minutes, kissing John's neck at random.

"Sh-Sherlock...faster..." John moaned. Sherlock looked at him with a curious expression,

"Are you sure?" He asked, slowing to a halt. John gasped a bit but nodded. "If you say so." Sherlock said with a smirk. He began thrusting as fast as he could. John knew it was all or nothing with Sherlock, he had been prepared for this kind of treatment. John was a lump of moans within a minute. A constant stream of 'Sherlock' and groans came from the blonde. He wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. Sherlock realized this and sped up his pace. He was fairly close as well.

"John..." He breathed out, barely keeping the sanity in his voice. John suddenly tensed up and threw his head back, letting out a loud moan. Sherlock gasped as John clenched around him. They came together, moaning loudly. Sherlock waited until he was soft enough, then pulled out with a pop. John was covered in sweat and still panting. Sherlock smiled and leaned down, stealing a kiss from the blonde. John kissed up at him softly, since he didn't really have much energy.

"I love you, John." Sherlock murmured.

"I love you too, Sherlock." John said softly. The blonde then gasped. Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking John over,

"What's wrong?"

"The baby kicked." John said with a grin.

* * *

_**THE END**_

* * *

**A/N: **Well, the end! I hope you guys liked it! :) Now I think i'll go start on a Mystrade or something. ;)


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